


here is the tabernacle (reconstructed)

by radiodurans



Category: Fashion Model RPF, Harry Styles (Musician)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, F/M, Fingering, Gender Play, HSLOT: Paris 2018, Hair Washing, Het Sex that Might be Lesbian Sex, Implied/Referenced Gender Dysphoria, Intercrural Sex, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Relationships, Other, Shower Sex, [seems a bit crude to call what happens “thigh fucking” but such is the English language], [yes the tag returns!]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:14:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24956683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiodurans/pseuds/radiodurans
Summary: Harry and Camille have shower sex in her flat after HS:LOT comes to Paris.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Camille Rowe
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	here is the tabernacle (reconstructed)

**Author's Note:**

> I did not intend for this story to be 3000 words long, holy hell. Lemme know in the comments if the wordiness was worth it or if I should’ve just cut it down to the pornography. Thanks to all of my June patrons from this month - I know I didn’t update as much as I wanted to but it’s been so crazy (as I think most of you know) that I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
> 
> Title from Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out.
> 
> Please do not send Mx. Harry Styles this fic. Any resemblance to persons living or dead are coincidental yadda yadda etc. I make no claims about Harry Styles' actual sexuality or gender within this story. Think of it as a roman a clef with the real names still tacked on.

It’s quiet on the way back to Camille’s flat after Harry’s show in Paris. He’s dozing on her shoulder, a little puddle of drool seeping into the arm of her t-shirt. Camille massages the back of his head and neck, grateful the cabbie has given them the blessing of silence. They’ve both grown accustomed to the quiet life in the past three months of no touring. It’s not an unpleasant adjustment, to be back on tour, but it is a bit overwhelming. Particularly the _arena_ of it all, which –well, it’s just _unusual_ to date someone so _larger than life_ that he fills _arenas._ Harry is so quiet and reserved so much of the time that experiencing the transformation from boyfriend to teen idol and back within a few hours is a bit of a knockout. If her flat wasn’t in a difficult-to-navigate part of the city, she’d probably doze off too.

Just as she suspects, it takes the driver several times to get onto the right street. Harry stirs when the cabbie gets it wrong the first time and wakes when he gets it wrong the second time. He rolls his head on her shoulder and blearily blinks up at her.

"Are we there?"

Camille kisses the top of his head. It smells of sickly-sweet hairspray and sweat. When she pulls her face away, her nose is a bit damp.

"Soon, baby."

Harry nods, rubs his eye in exhaustion, and winces when gummy mascara sticks his top and bottom eyelashes together. He rolls the lashes between his fingers and scrapes mascara away between his thumbnail and forefinger. Unwilling to dirty his nice suit with gunk, he wipes the makeup on the palm of his other hand.

"Ugh. I need a shower. You have one of those at your flat, by any chance?" he asks.

"I might,” she replies.

Camille dusts an errant eyelash off of his cheek. Before she can pull her hand away, he grabs it and nuzzles the inside of her wrist. Thick stage makeup smears onto her wrist. She licks her thumb and rubs the spot to clean some of it up. Harry groans dramatically.

“I can already feel myself breaking out,” he says. Camille hums sympathetically, carding her fingers through his hair. Truth be told, she can feel herself breaking out too. A shower is in order for both of them.

The driver rolls up to her flat and idles out front. Camille smiles, pays him with a little _thanks_ , and tips herself and Harry out onto the street. He’s wobbly with exhaustion but grabs both of their suitcases _and_ her purse anyway. The inside of his elbow is hot and damp when she grabs it. She isn’t usually so physically affectionate out in the open with him but the little smile he gives her in response tells her that the risk was worth it. Illicit photographs are tomorrow’s problem.

He opens her purse when she’s by the door and fishes out her keys. Camille takes them and jiggles one experimentally in the door. She really _should_ label her keys, but it seems like she can never get around to it.

“I should get you a house key,” says Camille, absentmindedly. “You’re so much better at labeling yours.”

“Really?” says Harry in a quiet voice. Only then does Camille realize she’s proposed to her boyfriend of less than a year the concept of full uninhibited access to her home. _Fuck_ – they haven’t even said ‘I love you’ yet. She blushes and nods with a little _mhmm_ as she fusses with the next key _,_ grateful that it’s dark outside. With a loud _thunk_ the deadbolt opens. Camille pulls the door open and pokes him on the small of his back.

“Ladies first,” she says. Harry stands up straighter, glowing as he only does whenever she uses feminine nicknames for him. Camille doesn’t really _get it_ – in fact, she suspects she may _never_ ‘get it’ – but she likes what it brings out in him anyway. He hoists up the bags in his arms and leads the way inside her home. Then, he bounds upstairs without asking where to put their things. Even though he’s only been here a few times, he must remember that the bedroom and bathroom are on the second floor. Smiling at this commit-it-to-memory attitude, she locks the door behind her, turns on the lights in the foyer and hallway, and follows him up.

Harry is laid out on the bed with a glazed look in his eye by the time she meets him in the bedroom. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, blowing his curls this way and that. He pulls them out of his eyes with his fist as though wishing they were tied up. Camille shimmies out of her t-shirt, jeans, and underwear, unwilling to greet the bed with the sweat of a thousand twenty-something lesbians. Then, she flops on top of Harry. He moans dramatically when she nuzzles her face into his neck.

“I’ve decided I’m too tired to shower,” he says. “Think I’m going to risk the acne.”

Camille props herself up on her elbows to look Harry in the face. She gives his nose a little _boop_ with her index finger; he wrinkles it in response.

“Harry Edward Styles – willing to ruin my white pillowcases for the sake of her own laziness. What would the tabloids say?” she says. Harry furrows his brow and pushes Camille’s hair behind her ear.

“Think the tabloids will be talking about something _else_ in the morning, to be honest.”

Ah. Right. _That._

It was hard to know what to say several days earlier when Harry revealed he was adding Medicine to his set. Not because of discomfort about his queerness – they established early on in the second date that it was all fine. Rather, it was the way he _looked at her_ , as though he _expected_ her to say something horrible that gave her pause. Her tight hug paired with _I love it_ didn’t feel like enough, but he seemed to appreciate it anyway.

This time, she wants to do better.

Camille kisses the hollow of his throat and thumbs at his ear.

“I think you really made people feel seen tonight, H,” she says. Harry rubs the back of her neck, nodding.

“Yeah. It’s just, like, I have to be seen to do that, you know? It’s hard being, erm. . .visible.”

Camille plants a kiss on his chin, cheek, eye. He wraps his arms around her waist and sighs into her touch.

“You’re very brave,” Camille murmurs in his ear. He tilts his head towards her and then –

Well, _then_ they’re just making out. In spite of all her exhaustion, hell, _in spite of how she knows both of them look and smell right now_ , she still cannot help feeling terribly horny for Harry-fucking-Styles. Camille puts her knee between his legs and ruts hard against his growing cock. After a few more minutes of frenzied breathing and groping, Harry gently pushes her away.

“This suit is custom. I shouldn’t come in it,” he says. Camille rolls off of him and ruffles her messy hair out of her face.

“Probably would be worth more money come-stained,” she says, giving her tongue a little bite at her own joke. Harry gives her a mock-offended look as he shrugs out of the rest of his clothes.

“Not about the money. It’s about the art. You should know that. . .been in fashion longer than I have,” says Harry. He yawns and rubs his eye with his fist. Camille grabs his hand and kisses it.

“Let’s go take a shower, baby,” she says, pulling him by the hand to the bathroom. Camille tries to not stare at how hard he is, conscious by now of how ambivalent he seems to be about his cock. Still, she likes what his hardness _means –_ if riding him isn’t in the cards, they’re both bound to get off somehow by the time this is over.

First – they need to get clean.

Harry sits on the edge of the large bathtub as Camille runs the faucet. She turns on the shower head when the temperature is just right. Then, they both step in and close the curtain behind them. Camille rinses off first under the harsh spray, relishing in the feel of sweat and concert grime sloughing off of her body. Harry sits down on a part of the tub that juts out from the wall and watches her with a smile on his face. He sticks his feet out and splashes them in the water whenever it juts far enough to reach him. By the time she’s satisfied with her own level of cleanliness, his eyes are closed.

 _Damn,_ he looks exhausted. Maybe a little action isn’t in the cards after all.

Camille soaps up a washcloth and walks over to him. She crouches down and wipes the makeup off of Harry’s face. He sighs into her touch, all tension releasing out of his body.

“I can take care of it,” he mumbles. “Don’t want you to, like. . .serve me.”

Camille rinses off the washcloth and hangs it. She kisses his now-damp forehead and strokes his hair.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me later,” says Camille. Concerned that unintentional innuendo might make him feel pressured in this state, she tacks on, “We can go shopping tomorrow.”

Harry leans forward and kisses her, gently. He strokes down her neck and over her collarbone before resting his hand on her hip.

“I’d do anything for you, Camille,” he murmurs.

He gets to his feet, rubbing leftover gunk out of his eye. Camille guides him by the hand towards the spray of the shower and places him underneath. While he’s getting nice and wet, she soaps up another washcloth, hangs it, and grabs some shampoo. She’s almost out, so the little she has left blows into her hand with a loud squelch. Harry giggles at the noise as he runs his hand over his face to keep water out of his eyes. Camille pokes him playfully in the small of his back.

“Immature,” she teases. Then she taps his shoulder. “Crouch down so I can reach your hair.”

Harry crouches obediently – he’s always so _easy_ for taking orders. Camille spreads the shampoo to both hands and puts them in Harry’s sticky hair. She massages his scalp and neck until he’s flushed a bright, pleasurable pink. Then, she thoroughly rinses his hair, making sure not a drop of shampoo is left behind. He’s panting quietly by the time her fingers leave his scalp. She’s pretty sure Harry is hard again, but doesn’t look on purpose. Just because he’s turned on doesn’t mean he actually wants to (or has the energy to) go further. Nevertheless, it’s incredibly hot. If Harry doesn’t want to have sex later, she’ll have to come alone to the memory while he’s sleeping.

“Stand up straight. I’m going to wash your back,” she says, willing herself to be less horny. He obeys which – okay, doesn’t help with the horniness. Still, she tries to not let on how turned on she is, rubbing his back gently with the soaped up wash cloth from earlier.

“Feels really nice,” he says as she washes between his shoulder blades. He cracks his neck and back in a way that makes her feel vicarious relief. Camille washes lower until she reaches his butt and then pauses.

“Would it be okay if I washed between your legs?”

Harry giggles, sounding a little hysterical this time.

“Oh god. _No –_ I’ll erm. I’ll spare you. I can feel that it’s a disaster down there from all of the sweat.”

Camille hums in understanding, hands him the bar of soap, and wrings out her used washcloth as he takes care of business. When he’s done, she lathers it up again and says, “Turn around.”

Harry follows the order and – _God_ , he’s so beautiful. His eyes sparkle under the low light as he smiles down at her. When she leans in to wash his tits, he presses a kiss to her forehead. The tenderness should feel at odds with his _very_ erect cock pressing against her stomach but – it just _doesn’t_. He doesn’t rut into her or claw at her body like her other boyfriends have. Harry lets her wash his neck, armpits, and stomach without asking for anything else. When she’s done, she hangs the washcloth again and bucks him on the chin with her index finger.

“Good as new,” she says. Harry wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her to him so that they’re both under the spray of the shower.

“Thank you,” he says.

Camille nuzzles into his chest. She closes her eyes, getting lost in the sound of the shower hitting the tile. Harry rocks back and forth slightly as though they’re slow dancing. Tentatively, Camille works the rock into a slow grind which causes Harry to moan in her ear.

“Is this okay?” says Camille, tucking her face into his shoulder.

“Mhm,” says Harry, fingers flexing at her hip. “Just let me, erm –”

He adjusts his cock to slot between her thighs. The whole length presses against her cunt and she groans. This position is an old favorite between them. _Scissoring_ he once called it – which, well. She’s never sure how to feel about how much Harry seems to love a tongue-in-cheek reference to lesbian sex when they’re in bed – but who is she to deny him joy by overanalyzing it? He melts under her hands when they play at being girls.

“Clit feel good, baby?” says Camille. She grinds against his pelvis and sucks a hickey onto his neck. Harry thumbs at her breast as he gives her a shaky hum of agreement.

“So good,” he says. Then, he pulls her along with him as they back up against the wall of the shower. Camille presses her hand against the wall and uses the leverage she has to thrust rhythmically against him. The steam of the shower dizzies her as she leans in and kisses Harry on the mouth. His hips stutter with pleasure each time she murmurs dirty talk into his mouth, cheek, neck, collar, tit.

“Fuck, I love your pretty cunt,” is what does him in. Harry comes so hard that Camille has to make sure he doesn’t fall over from temporary loss of all motor functions. She gently lowers him to the floor so that he can compose himself. He’s more shaken than she’s ever seen him after sex, as though invoking his illusory pussy caused him to see God when he came.

Camille cleans up the come between her thighs and turns off the now-chilly shower. She tip toes her fingers on top of Harry’s head and gives his scalp a little scritch.

“Are you okay?”

He swipes damp hair out of his eyes, grabs her hand, and rests his cheek against it.

“Yeah. I think so,” he says. Camille dances her fingers over his pretty eyelashes. She runs her thumb over his bow of a mouth and pushes it inside when he parts his soft lips. He moans – first, in an unconscious way, and then in a _pointed_ way that floods her cunt with heat. Camille pulls away, sits on the edge of the tub, and spreads her legs. She dips her fingers into her cunt and then holds them out to Harry.

“Want a taste?”

Harry slides closer and takes the fingers into his mouth. He sucks all of the cum off of them, looking blissed out.

“Can I eat you out?” he says, pressing her wet, sticky fingers against his face. “I really want to.”

Camille braces herself against the wall of the tub and spreads her legs a bit wider.

“Go on,” she says.

Harry crawls in between her legs and rests his cheek on her stomach.

“You are so beautiful,” he says reverently. Then, he kisses down from her belly button until his nose is nested in her thatch of pubic hair. He licks at her clit, eyes closed, building a steady rhythm with his tongue. His face squelches between her thighs as they tighten around his head. Camille rubs he back of his neck with a shaky hand. In the absence of the sound of the shower beating down, she can hear every gasp, every groan.

Harry slides two long fingers inside her, beckoning them towards himself. Every sensation grows more intense as the room becomes colder. She closes her eyes focusing on the press of Harry’s tongue to her clit. He’s daubing it gently with his tongue in between intense sucking around the bud. She’s close to the point of inevitability when she risks the request of – “Three, Harry?”

His ring finger slides in alongside the inside and middle. _Fuck_ , this fullness was worth chasing. With a great shudder, she comes, squirting all over Harry’s face and down his chin. He licks her through it until she’s too sensitive to go on and then he pulls away. Harry touches his own face, realizes how much come is on it, and frowns.

“Seems like we maybe should have showered last,” he says.

Camille closes her legs and winces at the small squelch. Her thighs feel about as slick as Harry’s face looks.

“Ugh. You’re probably right,” she says.

Harry slides over to the faucet, turns it on at a low level, and feels the temperature with his hand. Apparently satisfied, he rinses the come off of his face. Then, he grabs a washcloth, soaps it, and wipes his face down. After rinsing and soaping it again, he brings the washcloth over to Camille and cleans her pussy and the inside of her legs. Each long swipe of the cloth is paired with a kiss to her inner thigh. She strokes her fingers through his damp hair, humming a song from the radio sung by an artist she doesn’t know. When he’s done, he nestles his nose in her navel and sighs.

“Think I’m ready for bed,” he says. Camille yawns and nods.

“Yeah. I think I am too.”


End file.
